Lion's Share by Rochelle Rattner Page A

asked. The phone went silent. Fragments of other conversations could be heard in the background. “The feeling will pass eventually,” Marilyn repeated, “but I don’t want you to be frightened off by it. That’s why I’m telling you this. If Ed understands what you’re going through, he might be able to help you. But as it is now, he’s probably incredibly confused—one minute you’re responsive, then a minute later you withdraw. I think you ought to tell him you like him but that you’ve always had a problem getting close to men.”
    â€œWhen I first moved to the city I was young enough to get away with saying that. But I’m thirty-four now, for God’s sake. If I tell Ed I have a problem getting close to men, it would be like admitting I haven’t changed a bit.”
    â€œWell, have you changed?” Marilyn asked. “It seems to me you’re still wrestling with unresolved issues. That’s why I wish you’d let Ed try to help you.”
    â€œMaybe,” Jana said. As always, she wanted to do it all herself, without Ed, without Marilyn. Making a feeble excuse that she needed to unpack, Jana hung up the phone.
    She was never going to get back to sleep. The last thing she needed at this moment was to rehash that conversation. She put one pillow over her head, tucked her arm under the other. Already that arm felt numb, as if she’d been lying on top of it all night. She’d go crazy if her whole body felt this way. If she turned out to be frigid, she’d kill herself.

    Jana sat cross-legged on the floor of her studio, looking closely at the milkweed she’d brought back from a walk. It was a depressing stalk, most of the life dried out of it, yet she saw a strange beauty in its form. She pulled apart the pod, letting its hairlike fibers stream through her fingers. She closed her eyes and imagined a man running his fingers through a woman’s hair.
    She’d been at Yaddo less than two weeks, and already half a dozen similar scenarios had been played out in her mind. She might as well see Ed and get it over with. If necessary, she would force herself to be responsive to Ed’s touch, maybe even go to bed with him. Once she’d proved to herself that she wasn’t frigid, she could come back and start using her time productively.
    The American Association of Women in the Arts was having its monthly chapter meeting next week. She’d only been to five meetings in the six years she’d been a member, but she’d been promising herself she’d get more involved, and it would give her the perfect excuse to return to the city. She called Ed three days before returning. She told him she had a meeting at Columbia Wednesday evening, and he suggested they meet at five o’clock at Teachers, on the corner of 84th Street and Broadway, it was near his apartment and a short distance from Columbia. Also safely public, Jana thought. Her relief was mixed with regret—they wouldn’t be alone in a car, or even a gallery.
    Once again they sat at an outside table. Broadway at that point went uphill, and Jana found herself tilted uncomfortably as she stared downtown. She stirred the plastic stick in her wine spritzer. A bag lady wearing two sweaters and no shoes crossed the street against the light, dodging traffic. The streets on the west side seemed busier and dirtier than those on Second Avenue, and she felt awkward sitting here, but the radio was blasting inside, and the air conditioning trapped the odor of stale cigarette smoke. “Terry Riley’s in residence at Yaddo,” she said. “Have you heard his work?”
    â€œWho?” Ed lit his second Camel.
    â€œTerry Riley. He’s a minimalist composer, in the Phil Glass/John Cage tradition. He’s done some interesting pieces and gotten quite a bit of attention over the past few years.” She’d drawn Terry out about his theories the night